


White swirls

by SweetAlphaChild



Series: Tobidei week 2017 [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, No Plot, Slice of Life, TobiDei Week, TobiDei Week 2017, and some clay, just a lot of introspection, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 01:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetAlphaChild/pseuds/SweetAlphaChild
Summary: Obito has fallen in love with a bomb. Deidara doesn't want to remember how did it feel to fly alone.





	White swirls

**Author's Note:**

> Day three: Slice of life

Tobi gives him too many headaches. Deidara could list the reasons one by one. The list would be long, and surely something would be left out. But that does not prevent him from spoiling him too much, more than what the artist thinks he deserves. Tobi is at the opposite corner of the workshop table, molding his clay to form a poop, his black gloves stained white as the orange mask points to the swirling white spiral with eyes and a smiling mouth.

This is Tobi. Provoking and daring. Transgressor in his own way. His unbearable way of being comes along with an implicit precision, as if it were wrong in any other way. Deidara knows very well that one of the purposes of art is to evoke something to the viewer and for that reason appreciates that eschatological and naïf work dedicated to him, trying to trigger his own fury. And paradoxically, he feels privileged. The only spectator of an event unleashed only for him.

_Art is shit._

The thought pops in his head, and he snorts a laugh.

Tobi raises his head to look at Deidara seeking for an explanation that never comes. Maybe that was not what he hoped to get, but he won't always give him the pleasure to react predictably. Where is the challenge then?

"Could you possibly be laughing at Tobi, Deidara-senpai-sensei?"

His partner is tall, his tight sweater insinuates a wide back and worked biceps. It's annoying to have him so close at times, especially when the idiot takes him in his arms with such an ease that makes him feel too light and insignificant, then his body heat ignites and turns red and wants to make him explode, or let Tobi do it. Or both.

Because Tobi claims to be a good boy, but Deidara now knows it's all bullshit. He knows that Deidara likes attention and recognition in any form, and Tobi lavishes it on him. The masked man is still a mystery, one that he's unraveling slower than he would like. It leaves him eternally unsatisfied, but that's part of the thrill, somehow.

He was never easy to fall in and out of love, although everyone assumes that because he craves brief but intense experiences, his feelings must be as fleeting as his art. But they are wrong. He's only difficult to please, because he subconsciously seeks an anchor, a point of support that stabilizes the unstable, but at the same time he doesn't like to feel imprisoned. He never thought that the right balance existed, but there is Tobi existing.

It adds a flavor to his world that he never thought it'd have, one he could never get tired of. He doesn't even want to remember its former taste. Interesting contradiction.

* * *

 

Deidara was the first person who made Obito break his own rules.

He still remembers the day when mutilated and on the brink of hypovolemia, he fainted in his arms. At that time, he felt for him nothing more than disdain, until the artist made his old rotting tragedy burn inside of him by just batting the eyelashes framing those blue eyes of his. He was never indifferent to him, he always caused him something powerful, at one end or another of the scale.

The old Obito believed in soul mates. He also thought, that Rin was his. He was wrong on both things, and he's still wrong in many others. But when he closes his eyes, and he hears the artist's voice whispering his name in his ear, feels his heat or sees a hand-tongue drooling for him, he knows that in that, he's not wrong. There is something that the old Obito and he have pathetically in common: they can't resist when affection is directed at them. He tried before, but that phase is over. He already gave up. Deidara is so dazzling that he burns his retinas when he looks at him. He's so hot that he burns his fingers when he touches him.

But he doesn't get tired of doing it.

Every time he glances in his direction, Deidara is looking at him brazenly, smiling, as if wanting to express to him all the dirty scenes that must be going through his mind. He smiles back even though his lover can't see it, because he's almost certain he's receiving more attention than the semi-finished sculpture in front of Deidara. His feet start to move, and Obito couldn't say whether he gave them the order or not. He hugs him from behind, seeking warmth and Deidara pushes him away, leaving a white hand stamped on his sweater.

He tries again, his finger traces the skin of his arm, drawing a white swirl. He sinks it back into the clay and continues to add details, more spirals, wavy lines and dots. Deidara has stopped sculpting. He then proceeds with the back of his hand and his fingers, until he runs out of space and moves to the other arm.

From time to time, he feels his slender body trapped between his and the table shudder, the artist rests his head on him. He wishes he never moves it from there. Obito is still drawing motifs on his sewn skin. He can't believe he has permission to play at will. Again, he runs out of space. No problem. He takes off his t-shirt and paints on his back. Deidara doesn't talk, nor tries to stop him, he just lets him work without interfering. He knows that he'll end up filling his beautiful body with that amazingly smelling clay if he doesn't stop him. When he moves his hair to one side to paint on the back of his neck, he hears a sensual gasp.

His hands are on fire.

He turns Deidara in his direction, sits him on the table and continues to draw on his chest. The bomber doesn't protest yet, and he doesn't sense any intentions of doing so. Obito would like to do that forever. Delete and draw. Delete and draw. He's no longer afraid of running out of space. He wants to waste all the clay on that sensual body.

"Someday I'll make love to you on this table," he whispers, when the torso is already full of flowers, white dots and lines that curl up like tendrils.

By saying that, he receives a soft kick.

"My workshop is not for that, airhead," says Deidara.

As a finishing touch, Obito leaves a fingerprint on the tip of his nose and another on his chin.

"I'll have to change your mind, then."

His denial only encourages him to continue with the idea. He will never learn not to be too ambitious, but he will achieve that. It won't be now, though. He won't claim Deidara in his own sanctuary without giving him some sincerity and getting acceptance in return. If that happens, that will be his celebration, dedicating himself to him and to his enjoyment, as a craftsman to his work.

Rin with her brown eyes and her smile sweeter than honey stole his heart, squeezed it and smashed it. Deidara is destructive. He's dynamite. And day after day he feels that without pretending, he mends what is shattered more and more.

Interesting contradiction.


End file.
